Lost in the Prescription
by GuTTerArT
Summary: Barty Crouch Jr. wasn't Kissed. His soul wasn't sucked out. Instead, what's left of it was kept safely away from Voldemort ... at Order Headquarters. No slash.
1. Prologue: Bury Me

**Lost in the Prescription**

**Summary: **Barty Crouch Jr. wasn't Kissed. His soul wasn't sucked out. Instead, what's left of it was kept safely away from Voldemort - at Order Headquarters. No slash.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, you think I'd spend my time on a computer when I could easily be at a bar in New York instead? And yes, that is my idea of a dream holiday.

**A/N**: Where cannon's concerned, this will be based in book-verse simply due to the lack of Barty in the movie. There will be one or two things I've taken from David Tennant's portrayal of him, the tongue flicking for example, but otherwise any assumptions made about Barty or his past are derived from the Goblet of Fire. Mentioning this at all is, of course, redundant, what with it being AU, but doesn't hurt to clarify, I suppose.

**Credit Where Credit is Due**: Thanks so much to Morwen Eruviel and Elear Lindar for beta'ing this piece for me, and also to Esir, who encouraged the idea!

* * *

**:: Prologue - Bury Me In All My Favourite Colours ::**

The first thing he noticed were the colours. How the sky seemed to swirl and spin, stagger and stumble with purpose and consideration, choreographed with unique precision. Each day was a person. Each person had a colour, and his sky usually danced to a murky, toxic green, only occasionally cavorting with rayless browns and charcoals. That was how he saw things.

Until, of course, there was death. It meant all sorts of exciting changes. Burnt oranges, blood red - that was his favourite.

The night of his capture had been a deep crimson, as rich and life-threatening as the blood that hadn't spilled from Cedric Diggory. The unnatural, unmarked body nearly glowed against the gory darkness of the sky, a ghost in its own right. How Barty had marvelled! The pale, illuminated skin matched the sallow guise of the moon with a shade that only the Dark Lord could create.

Barty knew then that Voldemort had finally returned, reunited with his rightful body once more. Infinitely powerful. Mercilessly cruel. The thought had sent a shiver of ecstasy galloping down his spine. And oh! How he would be rewarded. Welcomed back like the hero he knew himself to be. Forever would he stand at the Dark Lord's side, a humble servant and the envy of every one of Voldemort's followers.

If only he had succeeded. If only he had secured Potter's dead corpse as his prize. The bleeding sky would have been his! A shared triumph between he and the Dark Lord! But, no. The brat had escaped with his life. Again! The thought left the vile taste of bitter cud in his mouth, blistering his tongue in a way no torturous spell or primitive Muggle device could have.

And now he sat alone and forgotten in one of the abandoned dungeons, deep within the belly of Hogwarts, thoroughly chewed and ready to be spat back out into the Wizarding world. They'd bound him and left him there for what he guessed was nearly two hours now, since Fudge had arrived at the school accompanied by half a dozen Aurors. For protection. Against him. A grin twisted itself onto Barty's features.

He'd been sure Fudge had looked ready to kill him. His meticulous observation of the Minister noticed the twitching of his fingers, the baring of his teeth for the briefest of moments. Conceited delight had coursed through Barty then. The very prospect that the Minister of Magic himself knew what being murderous meant, absent of the melodrama and exaggeration associated with the very word, that he'd tasted the sensation, just as Barty had on his numbed, swollen tongue, it was nothing short of ... rewarding. Perhaps not the reward that was owed to him, but it was still a realisation that brought a smugness to his demeanour that not even the Aurors could dampen.

Barty savoured the prospect that they weren't as different as the Minister would have liked to believe.

"I've seen enough." That was all he'd said. No professions of hatred or words designed to nick the remnants of what he supposed was the last of Barty's humanity. And Barty had responded in kind. He hadn't mentioned the pride that had coursed belligerently through every one of his arteries or the twisting warmth in his stomach when McGonagall moved to shield him from the advancing Aurors. The only response he gave to the Minister and the present officials was the absent flicking of his tongue every few minutes as he surveyed them through tepid, calculating eyes.

That single habitual movement alone radiated an omniscient arrogance irritating enough to send even Fudge on his way, leaving Barty with only an undistinguished Auror - a young scrap of a man graced with pimples and an overly protruding chin who, to Barty, appeared little older than Potter and his gaggle of cohorts- and Professor McGonagall for company.

The ever present smirk coating his face grew wider as she paced uneasily from one side of the room to the other, steadfastly ignoring him as he sat helplessly bound to the chair. Her clicking heels ticked in a timeless rhythm, trilling in unison with the warbled breathing of the post pubescent Auror who stood skittishly by the door. Barty followed her from left to right, never turning his head, watching the silent wringing of the wand between her ageing hands, both brittle and enduring simultaneously.

"Mother," Barty began in pathetically wretched mewl. "Mother ... Please."

McGonagall's eyes darted to him briefly, but her feet stubbornly continued their rhythmic pacing.

"Mother, I didn't!" He shrieked suddenly, performing for her the very scene he'd executed when he was first sent to rot in Azkaban. "I didn't, I swear it! Mother don't send me back to the Dementors!" She looked to him, watched as he desperately fought against the bonds, the legs of the chair scraping sickeningly against the stone floor in the process and yet the equally repulsive smile never wavered.

"Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!"

The young Auror looked helplessly to the Professor for guidance, watching the raving display of the lunatic strapped to the chair in a way not dissimilar to the expression Barty's mother _had _given him that day. The thought sent a thrill of ecstasy through him as he continued to thrash in his chair, nearly tipping it over.

"No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!"

She raised her wand then, clutching it firmly in strained fingers, simultaneously crushing any hope he had of escaping from Hogwarts.

"I won't hesitate to silence you permanently, Crouch." She took a step closer, the tip of her wand aimed perfectly at his jugular and the wailing stopped as abruptly as it began, choking and dying out almost as if she had charmed it out of him. Unfortunately for her, she hadn't, and when the grin on his face grew wider she knew he was immensely pleased of that fact.

His tongue flicked out contemptuously before he spoke, wetting the chapped lips and seemingly preparing her for what he was about to say.

"You won't."

Those two simple syllables alone were enough to send a chill of disgust down her spine; for a moment she was sure he'd noticed; that the large, deceptively off-colour eyes had caught her revulsion. Even so, she took a commanding step forward, pressing the tip of her wand against his Adam's apple.

"Give me three reasons why," she muttered darkly, as the image of Cedric's lifeless corpse flashed through her mind. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down convulsively when he swallowed, ready to speak.

"Only three?" He'd lowered his voice to a conspirational whisper. "You're not like us, Minerva McGonagall. You wouldn't perform a spell on another person unless it was _absolutely_ necessary. You don't even use Transfiguration as a punishment." It was almost like he was reminiscing, sharing with her the fond memory he had of turning Lucius' son into a ferret. She would later say his tone had nearly been friendly.

"Not like us. You lack the bravery." He smiled still, warmly and openly but betrayed only by his eyes. They showed a deeper darkness, a lurking danger she anticipated but never quite knew when to expect. "Ironic, isn't it? A Gryffindor that lacks courage?" A wheezing laugh escaped him, almost as if he wanted to keep his amusement a secret.

She pressed the tip of her wand firmer into his throat, enough to make it painfully uncomfortable if not to actually cause injury. "I wouldn't be too sure of what it is you think you know, Mr. Crouch -" He flinched slightly against the pressure of her wand as she jabbed it angrily against his throat. "- but I have witnessed the death of a student tonight. Don't think, even for a moment, that I won't retaliate."

For a moment, the pretentious smirk he'd been wearing since the Minister had left wavered and twisted into weary bravado. His false eyes glanced to the wand he only then seemed to realise she grasped in angrily trembling fingers. That night had been too much for her, he assumed.

Soon after he'd been sent down to the dungeons at McGonagall's request, still bound and with the added discomfort of sitting on the frigid stone floor. Was there even someone guarding him? He doubted it, frowning to himself at the blasé way he'd been tossed down there. Again, he was infinitely aware of his position in society.

The afterthought.

* * *

"You can't be serious!" 

"It's secure and well protected, Minerva. It's the greatest place of safety we have."

"It won't be safe with him there. Be reasonable, Albus! For heaven's sake, there will be children -"

Children? Barty raised curious eyes to the heavily bolted door in front of him from his position against the opposite wall. That was reckless, he mused to himself.

"With at least half a dozen Aurors at any given time."

"And short of chaining him to the wall how are we to assure he doesn't escape? It's ridiculous! It's worse than that. It's _dangerous_!"

As their voices grew closer, he couldn't help but wonder exactly where it was they were sending him. Children and Aurors? The thought baffled him completely. Before he could contemplate further, the door swung inwards, creaking loudly as though the very castle was protesting and adding its own opinion to the argument.

Dumbledore strode in, looking more tired and aged than Barty remembered ever seeing him. "Mr. Crouch -" Barty's tongue flickered in greeting as he glared at the Headmaster. "I have a proposal for you." Albus paused, awaiting a response. None was forthcoming. "We're not sending you to Azkaban -"

"Albus -"

"Minerva, we've made our decision."

"_You've _made your decision, Albus. I refuse to play a part in this." She marched angrily from the room, the annoyed clipping of her heels echoing loudly in the dank, stone hall. A heavy sigh escaped Dumbledore as he watched her leave, but he turned back to Barty sombrely without attempting to stop her.

"You will _not_ be sent to Azkaban. If you agree to a few conditions I will arrange for you to be sent elsewhere. The choice is yours."

"Why?" Barty asked incredulously, staring at Dumbledore suspiciously.

"Ultimately, you know as well as I that the Dementors will not remain loyal to the Ministry. Not now that Voldemort -" Barty hissed at the name of his master, "has returned."

Barty did know that. The Dark Lord could offer them so much more than Fudge would ever be able to. He wondered if it wouldn't be better to be sent to Azkaban, knowing that Voldemort would eventually free him - the temptation was certainly strong.

No. He wouldn't have been able to survive. Not there. Not in Azkaban. The time he'd already spent there had been maddening enough.

"What sort of conditions?"

If Dumbledore had had the energy, Barty was sure he would have smiled triumphantly. "A binding magical contract swearing to me that you will not, under any circumstances, leave the care of the Order -"

The Order? He was going to be staying with the Order of the Phoenix?

"- without my permission and neither will you harm anyone at the premises, Agreed?"

Barty nodded quickly, itching to have the rope chaffing his wrists and ankles removed. Dumbledore kneeled to Barty's eye level, positively looking through him rather than at him. Barty suddenly realised that he had his wand poised and aimed at his wrists, and the rope loosened significantly. The Headmaster held a crooked and withered hand towards him, deceiving Barty with their false fragility.

He reached forwards and clutched it within his own leathery and scabrous one, unsurprised by the strength with which it was received. A faint icy blue glow, almost white in the dim dungeon, radiated from their clasped hands and Barty glanced towards Dumbledore worriedly. He hadn't realised that he was basically signing the contract already, and couldn't help but feel he hadn't read the fine print.

It began to fade before he had the opportunity to wrench his hand back, and before he knew it, Dumbledore was striding out of the room.

"You'll be staying under the care of the Weasley's," said Dumbledore casually as he exited. "They've agreed to keep an eye on you."

_Excuse me? _He was stunned.

**To Be Continued ...**

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**A/N**: You guys know that part about a Gryffindor without courage? I'm assuming you read that part as opposed to just skipping down to the author's note at the end. My point is, you have no idea how much I wanted to put this in there, but damn Barty Crouch for not being able to have Muggle references! Anyway, think of this as a 'deleted scene' that I still wanted to share but couldn't for the sake of in-characterness. 

---

"Ironic isn't it? A Gryffindor that lacks courage?" Something suddenly occurred to him. "Hey! You're a woman without a heart, I'm a man without a soul, why don't we take a trip to Oz!?"

---

Phew. I'm glad I got that off my chest. Yes, it's irrelevant and pointless but man, it amused me. Just spreading the sunshine.


	2. He Knew

**Lost in the Prescription**

**Summary: **Barty Crouch Jr. wasn't Kissed. His soul wasn't sucked out. Instead, what's left of it was kept safely hidden from Voldemort ... at Order Headquarters? No slash.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I wouldn't be spending my time writing imaginary scenarios. Instead, I'd have them published!

**A/N**: Gah, sorry for such a long wait but between Deathly Hallows coming out and me not liking this chapter one iota, it started to take longer than I expected. Anyway, here it is, finally. Do enjoy. Massive thanks to my betas, Morwen Eruviel and Elear Lindar.

* * *

**:: Chapter One - He Knew ::**

It was unexpected. Their treatment of him. Such _fury_. One that almost matched the Dark Lord's if they had had a mind to take it further, to act on it. Barty grinned to himself. That was one thing he could guarantee; their cowardice. No matter that he was a murderer, oh no. They still wouldn't follow their impulses. They wouldn't kill him.

They weren't Death Eaters. And that was their weakness.

"Grab his legs!"

"Gerroff!"

"Careful!"

One brief but violent struggle later, Remus, with Tonks' help, managed to get Barty inside one of the unused bedrooms of Grimmauld Place, one that was more out of the way than the others. They tossed him inside, his hands still tied together as a precaution, before shutting the door on a momentarily winded Crouch and laying exhaustedly against it.

"Colloportus," Remus panted, pointing his wand at the door, which responded with a graceless

squelching noise, sealing itself shut. "He should be all right in there for now." As though to purposely contradict him, loud bangs of furniture being kicked around and destroyed could be heard on the other side of the door, accompanied by colourful bouts of swearing. "Maybe we should ..."

"Leave him to it, yeah, Remus?" suggested Tonks tiredly, lifting a hand to tidy her brightly coloured hair. "He's getting more than he deserves as it is. C'mon, let's get ourselves a cuppa." She braced herself against the door as she stood, fully aware of each bruise and pulled muscle, but otherwise unhurt.

Offering a hand to Remus, she helped to lift him off the dirty floor of the hallway and started down the stairs. "Milk and two sugars, please." He could hear the grin in her voice.

Remus glanced back worriedly at the door as he followed, still unconvinced, a niggling sense of guilt nipping at his conscience. He sighed quietly and resigned himself to ignoring it, after all the man was a killer. He didn't deserve his concern.

"Remus."

"Yes, I'm coming."

* * *

Barty was fuming. No, more than fuming. He was _livid_. He gave the dresser one last kick for good measure, allowing the satisfaction of the pain it caused to burn from his toe and up his leg, soothing his seething temper. Instead, he collapsed onto the dilapidated bed, which squealed in surprise, and focused his anger on his wrists and the rope with which they'd tied him.

A stray, that was how they treated him. Like some wretched waif they'd picked up on the street, an animal that needed to be trained. "Bad Barty, don't climb on the furniture! Sit, there's a good boy!" He wouldn't obey, oh no. He'd bark and claw and bite until they snapped...

... There was an idea.

Barty glanced down at the ropes binding his wrists, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. Hmmm ... the knot was tight but maybe he could ...

He started pulling at it with his teeth, jerking his arms to try and loosen the knot. He tipped backwards to lie on the bed for better leverage, placing a foot awkwardly between his wrists and pushing on it. Nothing happened. The blasted thing wouldn't shift! He growled in frustration and after a full minute of battling with the rope, collapsed onto the bed to stare moodilyat the ceiling.

That was how he was expected to live then? Just tossed aside whenever they'd had enough of him? Chained to the wall, as McGonagall had so adequately put it. He wondered if they'd even remember he was there. That, one day, they'd ask themselves 'whatever happened to that Death Eater the Order imprisoned?'. They'd come back to the house, wherever it was, and go through each room in search of him, until finally they'd come across this one. They'd open the door, and inside would be the remains of his corpse, bleached bone by then, the hands still bound, the wrists mangled and twisted with each attempt to break them.

He'd be damned if he was going to let that happen.

Without the use of his hands his resources were limited, but that was their first mistake. They hadn't bound his legs. He kicked himself into a standing position, using the momentum to get to his feet. He surveyed the room in detail, ignoring the broken bits of furniture that scattered the floor.

... The window. Had they forgotten about it? Surely they hadn't? He glanced to the door, his tongue flickering absently as he began to form a plan in his mind. It didn't sound like anyone would be checking on him anytime soon. Quietly, so as not to alert anyone downstairs of his movements, he went to the window and, with one more glance to the door, opened it.

It lifted an inch, no further. Just to taunt him, he was sure. He tried again, pushing all of his weight against it to try and lift it upwards. It groaned and protested while Barty's arms shook due to the only angle his bound wrists would allow, the unused muscles straining. That's when he saw himself in the window, reflected against the orange seeping into the room from the Muggle lighting outside.

He looked ... ragged. It wasn't him. The stranger in the window was thin, almost skeletal. Bright, feral eyes were sunken, the heavy blackness surrounding them like a marsh of darkness, sucking them under. His cheeks were hollow, the bones beneath jutting out viciously. This man was nothing but sharp angles and fragility. He wasn't the Barty Crouch he remembered. His reflection scowled at him, scorning him like a misbehaved eight year old. It was his father.

"Stop it!"

He threw an elbow at the ghostly twin's chest, shattering the glass into glittering, pointed shards that clattered angrily against the floor. As if through a heated haze, he felt something warm and wet soak the elbow of his robes. The stinging pain in his arm brought him back to lucidity as a friend might drag a man from the edge of a cliff. But there were more pressing matters at hand.

They were coming.

Order members had heard the racket of breaking glass and were coming to investigate. Barty glanced from the door to what remained of the window, the sound of many pairs of feet lumbering up the stairs suddenly louder to his ears. With one more hurried look over his shoulder, tongue flickering anxiously, he reached a hand over the ledge and prepared to lift himself out, intending to use the drainpipe to the left of the house to climb his way down.

He didn't get that far.

His shoulder connected heavily with something invisible. It pulsed a near-white blue at his touch, its bite freezing him in place. The great frosted dome that surrounded the house illuminated the street below for a second like a spark of lightening, before electricity galloped through and into Barty, sending him crashing backwards. It literally boiled his body, searing him from the inside out, thawing the blood that had frozen in his veins and making it bubble angrily. He was too consumed by it and the rotten smell of cooked human flesh - _his _flesh - to scream but as his head hit the floor with a sickening thud, it didn't matter anyway.

There was only darkness.

* * *

The sharp chill of the Dementor's clawing fingers dug deeply beneath his scarred flesh, wrapping themselves around his bones and allowing their despondency to seep into the sinewy, grieving wounds.

He was in Azkaban.

He sat in the farthest corner of the cell. It wasn't his; not the one he'd occupied when he'd first been sent there. There were no bloody messages of madness encrusted on the walls or the heavy bruises of a struggle on the door. Nor was the occupant rocking desperately in the centre of the room, muttering to himself of salvation and forgiveness. Not yet. Instead, Barty stared pensively at the unfamiliarly healthy door and uninjured walls in dreaded anticipation.

He didn't blink. He didn't move. He knew. He could predict what would happen next, as it had what felt like the millionth time. The familiarly unfamiliar door would unlock; it would scream in agony as it was wrenched open on unaccustomed hinges. In would stalk a familiarly unfamiliar figure wearing the traditional robes of a Death Eater, and with him would be the familiarly unfamiliar Dementor. There would be a pause while what little warmth the room had was greedily sucked out before, once again, the Dementor would steal his soul.

Helpless to stop it, Barty could only do what he'd done the last time it had happened, and the time before that, and the time before that. He prayed.

"Discover to me, O' Lord, the nothingness of this world, the greatness of heaven, the brevity of time and the length of eternity." And as before, his pleading words inscribed themselves on the weeping walls, wet with dew and cold and now the trickling blood of the inmates that welled from the cracks. "Grant that I may prepare for death, that I may fear Thy judgments, that I may escape Hell, and in the end, obtain Heaven."

The words came out slow and harsh, the faint wheeze of his breath sounding louder in the otherwise still room. The words grated past chapped lips at a painfully slow pace because Barty _knew_. He knew that when the prayer was finished, that just as he hoped a miracle would occur and they would _not _arrive, they would.

Bright, feral eyes closed as he concentrated on tearing the word from his throat and as the prick of the jagged writing continued to skewer itself on the stone. But he didn't finish, he was left to pray for eternity, he knew, and that's when they would arrive.

Not right away, no; they liked to keep him waiting. Keep him guessing. But he knew. They were just outside the door. Listening. Sensing. But he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Not this time. He wouldn't allow himself the luxury of hope...

"_Crouch_!"

**To Be Continued …**


End file.
